Wrap yourself around the tree of life

I just made chicken in sweet and sour sauce, and I think I finally got it right. Its just about using the right stock, using the right balance of spices and getting the balance of sweet and vinegar right. And I think I just got it.

What a totally boring thing to go around talking about. I must be very uninteresting. Like, this is the first thing I thought I should write about. God, I am my own mother.

I feel so tiered. Like all the time. it might be due to the fact that I spent seven hours on the lab today dancing in the midsts of poisonous gases. This one class seems to revolve around doing analysis to find out what chemical salts there are in any an unknown sample. And that means a lot of work, using logic, using a gazillion tiny, tiny beakers and washing the gazillion of tiny, tiny beakers because you only have like seven. And walking around in decomposed sulphur gas, which is mainly H2S, and that's the gas that forms when eggs decompose. Wonderful.

I am torn between wanting to sleep and wanting to eat chocolate.

Cweap.

Little fish, big fish swimming in a water, hey man give me my daughter

Totally stuffed from using my stipendslashloansslashpay-check on Chinese food and Cds. Was really going for a run, but I decided against it since I'm seriously about to fall asleep.

There is a lot of frustration beneath my skin, of the artistic side. The chapter I am working on refuses to work. Yesterday I was so angry I hit my keyboard, so the 1-key fell off and now there's just some macaber hole with a guey little thing that I always miss when I try to hit it.

Crap.

mentos and alcohol and strange things on the bus

I am drunk. Its true! I am really, really drunk! And i waited for the nightbus for eighty million years and it sucked and I saw someone i know making out with someone I don't know.
How wonderful.

When I bought vegetables today at the store, there was a pack of mentos forgotten by someone next to my wares and I just put it into my own bag and now i am eating the stolen mentos and I bought a coke from the hellish automat outside my building.

And I am listening to Don Juan's reckless daughter.

Just found some grapes from the fridge. Tastes okay, I guess. not really tiered. Not really awake. Kinda wanting something fried and salty. Kinda wanting something mushy and sweet.

Strange.

Everything is so strange...

...

I miss my camera! Some old pics...

Hey, I am being clever here!

Do you think Magrite thought: Shit, I made the apple too big again?

No wings. No miracles.

I am trapped.

There are many like me, here in this place. They walk and digest and fornicate and excrete like any other form of life in these dirty streets. They have horrible acne, some of them. Tiny breasts. Stretch-marks on their flabby guts.

Clad in dirty-brown and grays, hats and glasses, stuble and wrinkles and horrible fashion-tastes, matching yellow with screaming pinks and silly hats and ugly, ugly little things.

Anguish. Pain. Loneliness.

We are not above these things. Not raised or erected or suspended. We are not above anything. If we were, we would not have come here, driftet here across gleaming distances too great to imagine, too small to matter.
We are stardust. We are silvery. We are specks of dust, mere heart-beats and slow beats and chords.

And I am trapped.

We are bound to logic. To rules. to predetermined numbers and figures and schmes and graphs. We are not above these things. We cannot defy logics and the mathematic cirquits that run through everything like metal-
wires and ivy.

No miracles.
No wings.

Not even feathers.

Some of us forget. Not entierly, of course. But slowly. Slowly. Some of us yearn silently and mutely, but never raise voices. The voices tuned, ages ago, to fine instruments of strings and resonance; now used for orgasmic cries and furious bellows and tiny, tiny hick-ups and alcoholic mutterings.

No miracles.

No wings.

And I am trapped.